“Jack? You there?”
“… Q… R… S… T… U…”
I paused for a moment, and then made a beeline for my car, stepping lightly so my footsteps didn’t echo on the asphalt.
My cell reception became staticky.
“It sounds like I’m losing you, Jack. I hope not, for Herb’s sake. Frankly, I don’t know how much more he can take.”
I made it to my car and fumbled with the keys, beginning the alphabet for the third time. When I opened the door, one of my cops saw me.
“Lieutenant! We can’t find him!”
“Uh-oh, Jack,” Fuller purred into the phone. “You’d better hurry.”
I hopped in the driver’s seat, my cell signal getting even weaker. I was yelling the alphabet now, hoping my louder voice got through. Both cops converged on my car. I jammed it into gear and hit the gas.
The exit was up a concrete ramp.
“Jack?” Barry was yelling. “I can’t hear you, Jack. Jack-”
The phone went dead.
CHAPTER 50
Fuller scowls at the dial tone. He hits Redial. Daniels picks up immediately.
“I lost the signal on the exit ramp. I didn’t do anything stupid.” She sounds anxious, breathless.
“How can I believe you, Jack?”
“Don’t hurt him again.”
Fuller lifts his foot, ready to stomp on Benedict’s dislocated elbow. Herb stares up at him, hate in his eyes.
“We had a deal, Jack.”
“If I hear him scream once more, I swear to God, I’m hanging up and throwing my phone out the window.”
“How do I know the cops aren’t with you?”
“I’m alone. I ditched them in the parking garage.”
“Maybe you called for backup, on your radio.”
“I didn’t have time. If my radio was on, you’d hear it.”
Fuller walks away from Herb, takes the Sig out of his belt. He fires a round, up the stairs.
“What did you just do, Barry? Let me talk to Herb.”
“That was a warning. If I think you’re lying to me, if I think you’re bringing more cops, I end Herb Benedict’s life. Understand?”
“Let me talk to Herb.”
Fuller rolls his eyes. He holds out the phone. “Herb, say something.”
Benedict looks away, lips pressed shut.
“Hold on a second, Jack. He’s being stoic.”
Fuller plays pull’n’ bend with Herb’s swollen arm until the guy sings like a choir boy.
“Tell her you’re okay.”
“Jack!” Benedict screams. “Don’t come!”
“There, Jack? Satisfied he’s still with us?”
“When I get there, Barry…”
“Stop it, Jack. You’re scaring me. Where are you?”
“Going north on Lasalle.”
“When you get to Division Street, take a left. And let’s hear that alphabet.”
Jack begins the ABC’s again, and Fuller goes back upstairs. His head thumps like someone’s bouncing a bat off of it, and his eye does its best to compete for the gold medal in the Pain Olympics.
The syringe calls to him from the kitchen table.
One little shot, and the pain will go away.
But Daniels will be here soon. That will also make the pain go away.
The head pain. Not the eye pain. Take the shot.
She’s coming armed. It’s important to stay alert.
You can handle her. Take the shot.
Fuller lifts the needle. His arms are weight-lifter arms, the veins pushed to the surface by all the muscle. He doesn’t need to tie off.
Good.
Fuller shoots up, waiting for the warm rush of heroin to flood through him.
The rush doesn’t come.
“What the hell?”
“Barry? Did you say something?”
Fuller grits his teeth, staring at the empty syringe. That little Mexican bastard. What the hell did I just shoot up? Baking soda?
“Barry, I’m going west on Division. Barry?”
“Go right on Clybourn,” Barry growls. He raises the syringe to throw it across the room. But then…
Something happens.
It’s a subtle change at first. The kitchen seems to come into sharper focus. Barry stares at his hand, and his stare magnifies his fist until it’s the size of a baked ham.
Barry looks at his feet, and they also seem to grow. He’s ten, fifteen, twenty feet tall. How can he fit in this tiny room? A-ha! The kitchen is growing with him, walls getting longer, wider, stretching out and out.
And as he’s growing, the pain in his head is shrinking. Until it’s a tiny spot – a speck of minor irritation – in the middle of his swollen eye.
Fuller giggles, and the sound echoes through his head deep and slow. He hears someone talking, and notices he’s holding a phone.
“Barry? Are you there, Barry? What’s the address?”
Address? Oh, it’s Jack. She’s coming to the party.
“Twenty-one sixty,” someone says. It’s him. The words feel solid in his mouth, like they’re made of clay and he’s spitting them out rather than saying them.
This is fun.
He spins in a slow circle. The room moves with him, shifting and bending. When he stops, the room keeps moving, because he wills it to. He can control it. He can control everything.
“I’m a god.”
Fuller touches his face, feels the bandage. Gods don’t need bandages. He rips it off, and that causes a spark of pain in his eye.
“No more pain.” His voice is thunder.
He glides over to the drawer, dumps the contents on the table.
A corkscrew.
It only hurts for a moment, and he cries a lot.
No, he’s not crying.
It’s blood.
He hears a car outside. A visitor.
All pain is gone now, replaced with something else.
Anger.
Jack Daniels is here. She’s the one who put him in jail. She’s the one who gave him these headaches.
She’s trying to stop him from being a god.
He wipes some blood off of his cheek and balls his hands into fists.
“I’m in here, Jack.”
CHAPTER 51
“Fuller? Fuller, dammit, are you there?”
There’s no answer. Where was he? Was Benedict still alive? What happened?
I disconnected and dialed 911, giving them the Clybourn address. Then I spun the cylinder on my.38, counted six bullets, and set my jaw.
Fear, anxiety, and all of my other neuroses be damned; I was going to go save my best friend.
I was three steps up the porch stairs when the door swung open.
Fuller filled the doorway, arms stretching out as if offering me a hug. His face was awash with blood, a gaping hole where his left eye used to be.
Training took over. I brought up my gun and grouped three shots in the midsection.
Rather than fall back, Fuller did something unexpected.
He lunged.
I caught him in the shoulder with the fourth shot, and then he was on me, knocking me backward, onto the sidewalk, him on top.
I felt a rib or two crack under his weight, motes of light exploding in front of my eyes. My gun arm was over my head. I tried to bring it around, but Fuller grabbed it, his enormous hand swallowing mine and my weapon. I fired, and the bullet ripped through his palm, forcing out a collection of small bones. But he didn’t let go.
Fuller’s other hand moved up my body, and closed around my neck.
It rained blood, dripping from his face onto mine. I squeezed my eyes shut and brought up my free hand, digging at his empty socket.
Fuller howled, rolled off me.
I aimed my last bullet at his head, but he shifted and I missed.
Breathing hurt. I pressed my hand to my ribs, and it helped a little. I managed to get to my knees, then my feet.
So did Fuller. He faced me, gushing blood from too many places to count. But he didn’t seem bothered by that fact, as evidenced by the wide grin on his face.
I found my center, reared back, and aimed a reverse kick at the holes in his chest.